


Talking Buisness

by suhdude



Series: mafia stuff [1]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost B.C.
Genre: Angry Sex, Name Calling, Oral, Other, Sex, Smut, its kinda a quickie, sex that would be un-good irl, yall call eachother mean names while ya fuck, you both wear suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suhdude/pseuds/suhdude
Summary: You meet Papa Emeritus at a restaurant to talk about how to get business running more smoothly.





	Talking Buisness

“What the fuck was he thinking? Showing up on my turf?” you mumble into your wine, spotting the cocky pope as he entered the restaurant. You arrived half an hour early, sure he would arrive fifteen minutes early. He hadn’t, you wound up waiting a full hour. The host guided him to the table in the back you sat at, hidden from the rest of the diners. The olive leaves carved into the wood board left gap enough to view, but not to be viewed. The cool glass met your lips again, you didn’t taste the wine as you knocked the remainder back. It was smooth, contrasting the look on your face. Someone rushed to re-fill the glass. Empty space replaced by the crimson elixir.

“Good evening” Papa greeted, extending his hand as you rose from your seat. You took his hand, ignoring the way he seemed to present his ring, and shook it. The smile on his face faltered.

“Thank you for finally joining me,” you replied, pulling your lips into the best smile you could manage. He nodded. The two of you motioned to sit down at the same time. Had your mood been less sour, you may have laughed.

Papa waved to one of the servers and ordered an appetizer and his favorite wine, resting back in his seat as the server left. He crossed one leg over the other, ankle resting on the opposing knee. A deep breath was pulled in, you tried to keep yourself calm. You could smell mint and arrogance on him, unsure of which was stronger.

“Should we wait for my popovers or get straight to business?” He inquired. It was infuriating the way he stretched his arms out, resting back, draping one arm over the back of the chair. It was hard not to snap the neck of the wine glass as he spoke, his voice was honey and the sting of the bee combined.

Shoulders shrugging, you played it cool. Wine slipped into your mouth as you relaxed back, mirroring him.

The two of you sat in silence, the buzz of the restaurant feeling far away. Your stomach growled as plates of food rushed by. Whiffs of seared garlic in the sauce, braised meat, you wished you had ordered something.

Papa’s drink arrived, the server obviously nervous. They carefully let the pink liquid flow from the bottle, the glugging sound the only interruption in the bubble of tension. He nodded the server away, pulled a cigar from inside his large coat. Carefully, he bit off the tip, then patted himself, looking for a light. You rolled your eyes, sliding him your hurricane. He took the silver lighter off the table, hunching slightly as he did.

“Thanks,” he mumbled out of the side of his mouth. A pop of the cover, a flash from the flint, and he hollowed his cheeks, puffing. His fingers grasped the cigar as he pulled it away from his mouth. A cloud of smoke winding from his mouth. It wasn’t long before the server was back with a basket. You both nodded at the server. Papa took one in his cigar less hand and took a bite, you could tell how flaky it was just by how his mouth moved to try and recover the falling pieces.

“Popover?” Papa offered, pushing the basket towards you. You studied his face a moment, his eyebrows raised, your stomach grumbled again.

“Sure,” you finally replied, “thanks.” It was light between your thumb and index, small enough to just pop in your mouth, so you did. It was airy, perfect.

“Great,” Papa started as you chewed, “now stay away from the shipments coming near me, they’re mine, you don’t get to pick up my profit.” He had returned to his reclined position, after he spoke, he drained his glass of wine, eyes meeting yours. You knew this was going to happen, but, it was harder to keep your cool than you had anticipated. You had to try.

You smiled at him as the server quickly refilled his glass before dashing away. Your chair scooted a bit closer to the table. You snagged another popover, chewing it slowly, watching the eyes of the man across from you as they thinned under his tightening brow.

“No thanks,” your voice breaking the silence, “I like my money in my own pocket.” You sipped some of your wine. Papa was obviously not used to being denied things like this. Surprise on his face quickly shifted, he had almost choked on the smoke from his own cigar.

“Maybe you aren’t understand-” he started, leaning forward to meet you.

“No, you don’t seem to understand, if they are on my territory when my people get to them, I feel as though that means they are mine, not yours because they are, what, “near”you?” You spoke, trying not to show the unease you felt. By the look on Papas face, it had been working. You took another sip of wine as the man before you took a long drag. He seemed to be growing impatient.

“Don’t let my reputation fool you,” he began “my charity does not bleed into my professional life, I am not always a jovial man. I intend to get what is mine.” His whispers were deep, his eyes never leaving yours. It was hard to deny the effect he had on you, but, this was not the time nor place.

“There is hardly a reputation to fool me,” you scowled, “your galivanting and overspending supposed to impress me into giving up my bottom line? Do you honestly just expect me to give up what I’ve worked for because your daddy is in charge?”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Papa hissed, the fingers that held his cigar now part of a fist.

“You’re one to talk, trying to move your product in my neighborhood,” you shot back, staring daggers at him.

“We both know it’s a grey zone, fair game. You on the other hand have crossed every line you have found,” you could practically smell the alcohol on him, the two of you hunched so far over the table a whisper was all you needed.

“Says the man whose ghouls can’t watch where they dump your hits,” his eyes seemed to widen for a moment at this, as if it had struck a chord, before narrowing again.

“Maybe if you didn’t fuck up so much I wouldn’t have to wack so many numbskulls.” Papas words were as sour as your mood.

“I’m sure you enjoy wacking, it’s the only pleasure you get,” a sneer turning half to a grin as you spoke to him.

“Watch your mouth,” he said, his own pulling to a deep frown.

“Or what tough guy? Gonna wack me? Start a whole fucking bloodbath? The big guy would have you on the slab next to me for starting everything back up.” You let arrogance slide off your tongue, thrashing like a whip.

“This isn’t a game,” Papa hissed “know your place.”

“Know my place?” A laugh rolled in your throat “If you knew yours you’d be in a retirement home, you miserable old fuck”

“You know what,” He pushed his chair back, standing up “let’s go.”

“Fine by me!” You exclaimed, practically knocking your chair over as you stood. You both quickly downed the remainder of wine in your glasses.

The two of you cut through the kitchen to the back alley, the kitchen clattering around you falling silent in waves as they watched the two of you walk through. Nervous whispers were exchanged as you left through the kitchens back door, closing it on your way out. You surveyed the alley, glad your car was still sitting at the end, blocking it.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Papa asked, turning to you, hand on one hip, the other hand holding his cigar. He took a deep drag before he snubbed it on the sole of his shoe, placing it in his pocket.

“Who do I think I am?!” You moved closer to him, realizing how small the alley was, “I think I’m someone who has worked for what they have, not some spoiled old man who still acts like a brat just because their daddy is important!”

“Worked? Worked?!” He exclaimed, circling you slightly “Everyone knows you fucked your way to the top!” your back found the brick wall. He came closer.

“I still got here of my own volition!” You snarled back. He loomed ever closer.

“You,” he started, the smell of tobacco and the fruity notes from the wine on his breath, “You’re nothing but a business minded whore.” You couldn’t help it, a moan escaped you.

He wasn’t even touching you, but, you could see the jolt as he realized what had just happened. Your eyes went wide as his did, a blush burned at your cheeks but you tried to hold steady. Teeth shone, his lips pulling into a dangerous grin. His eyes narrowed again.

Papa let his arm rest on the wall as he leaned back in. “So much for being tough little one” he mocked. You searched his face. Hands lunging at his jacket, you began to spin. Caught off guard he followed, his back slamming against the brick as you gripped his lapels. You pressed your body close to his to keep him still, your eyes staying trained on his.

"Worthless bastard,” you hissed “your head is bigger than the crown you wear and ego twice that, too bad you'll never deserve it.” Papa gulped hard, his eyes fully open in shock. His breath became erratic. You felt something hard pressing against you, you hadn’t payed attention to where his hands had been, images of being shot flashed through your mind, you tried to keep your face stern.

“You son of a bitch, we agreed no guns!” You practically yelled. “I can’t believe I put any faith in you!”

“I, uh,” Papa stammered, your hand moving, pressing flat to the hard object that had prodded at you. It was his turn to moan. You froze a moment, hand unmoving.

“Holy shit”, you mumbled, “that isn’t a gun…” Without realizing it, your hand began to move again, pressing against his erection. His chest rumbled, one of your hands still gripping his lapel. His mismatched eyes fluttered a moment, you grinned. “Not so tough now, huh old man?” you mocked your face stretching to his. Breath left both of you in unsteady waves. His face contorted, his hands moved, one on your cheek, the other on the side of your neck, his lips crashed against yours. No shock, no panic, you just pressed your lips to his. Angry, hungry.

Papa’s tongue slipped across your lip, his hip pressing forward to grind against your hand. The hand you had on his coat pulled him closer. He turned the two of you so that you were pinned to the wall. Your hand moved from his enthusiasm to his ass, pulling at the muscle as he ground against you. His hand left your cheek, drifting down, over his chest, dipping into his coat. You were a faster draw than him, your teeth pulled at his lip at the same time you pressed the barrel of your revolver under his chin. You pulled away, looking at his face, his eyes heavily lidded.

The hand that had held his jacked dipped into it, retrieving a revolver identical to yours. Papa scowled, gun still pressed under his chin. You tossed both into a heap of garbage near the restaurants door.

“Are we going to talk business now?” You asked, patience thin.

“Why not get right to it?” his voice was hoarse, gruff, his lips dipping to your neck. He sucked a trail, finding a spot that pulled moans from you. He backed you against the brick again, hands finding your ass to lift you. You wrapped your legs and arms around him. It was easy to tell how aroused he was, his chest heaving, his cock rock hard against you as his hips got back to work.

“And you called me a whore,” you gasped. The heel of your shoe dug into his ass, bringing his closer.

“And I meant it,” he growled, leaving your neck to look you in the eyes. He looked so damn cocky your blood boiled, your lips crashed against his again. You hated how good he felt, how soft his lips were, how they tasted sweet, hot, how it made the pressure in your gut grow.

“You’re disgusting” you sneered, lips traveling down his jaw, to his throat. You nipped and kissed down, hands leaving their place around his neck to his chest undoing the buttons on his shirt. One hand that supported you shifted, his fingers pressing your entrance through your clothes, you moaned into the flesh of his neck. Once his shirt was undone, you let your hands explore his chest, broad, muscle coated by a supple layer of fat. Firm with a bit of give. You let your hands move to his belt buckle as your lips worked his neck again. It wasn’t long before his fly dropped as well as your legs. You pushed him against the wall, a gasp escaping him. You pulled his underwear just far enough out of the way to get a grip on his cock. It was dripping already. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, you drug your tongue from base to tip. He grasped at the wall behind himself. You had never tasted a man so sweet, musk filling your nose. With one hand you stroked him, the other rested on his hip to keep yourself steady. Your lips wrapped around his leaking cockhead, gliding thanks to the extra lubrication. He swore as you continued, chest rumbling.

“Fuck, don’t stop you slut, suck my cock,” his gloved hand tangled in your hair, guiding you. You moved your tongue, tracing the base of his cockhead each time you pulled back, it didn’t take long before he was a mess. The hand that had been on his hip moved to squeeze his ass. His grip began to tighten, his words slurred, and he pulled you off, standing you up with the hand furled in your hair. His lips met yours again, he didn’t even bother to right himself before his hand went down your pants, stroking you feverishly.

“All worked up and you’ve only sucked my cock, how bad you are,” he chastised. “Fuck, I have to taste you.” He dropped to his knees before you, pulling at your pants, hardly getting them out of the way before his tongue pressed to you. You curled forwards, hands meeting the cold rugged brick just to stay standing. You felt the way his lips gently sucked at you, tongue tracing desperately. All at once, it seemed like he had two tongues, each working together for a common goal. It was too much, the pit in your belly shot, your legs felt like jelly. Moans rolled off your tongue as he continued, one of his hands moving to brace your hip, the other moving to slip a digit into you.

“That easy huh?” he teased, finger curling, not once letting his words give you a break. His finger was joined by a second, he rose from his knees to meet your face again, lips glistening. “For someone so sour, you taste so fucking sweet.” His face hovered in front of yours, his breath tinged with you.

“The best you’ll ever have old man,” your voice wavered but he still seemed to recoil at the words. You grabbed his cock, stroking it to the rhythm that his fingers curled. You both moaned, eyes staying on the others, anger not the only fire that burned.

“Let’s see how good of a lay you really are.” His fingers dropped, the hand on your hip pivoting you as he stepped behind you, his erect dick brushing your bare hip for a moment. Papa took a step forward, unbalanced, you dropped your elbows against the brick wall. His hands left you for a moment, one refinding your hip, thumb tracing down to your ass. “One more, for good luck” Papas voice came, low, like his face. His tongue dragged against you again, dipping in for just a moment. His other hand found the opposing hip as he stood up again. You felt his bare cock begin to rub against your ass, his hands gliding down to grab your ass. “You look so much better like this,” he moaned.

"You no good, ugly, motherfucker,” you gasped back.

"Say it again" Papa cooed, one hand leaving your ass.

"Fuck you Emeritus.” You growled back, wiggling your hips as you ground back against him, you could feel the tip of his member as he positioned it at your entrance.

“If you insist,” he said, the last syllable catching as he pressed forward. He rested with just the tip in, you pressed the rest of the way back, eliciting a deep snarl from him. You began to rock against each other, your hand balling into fists, fingernails digging at your palms as his dug into your hips. The pace hastened, slapping noises echoing around you among more guttural sounds.

“You’re nothing but a tramp,” Papa whispered, his chest now pressed against your back. His hot breath tickling at your ear as his hips bounced against your ass.

“At least I’ve earned everything I have” you shot back, voice quaking with each thrust. His hands moved, one tracing down and around, stroking you again, forearm keeping some control on pulling you back onto him, your breath hitching. The other dipped under the hem of your shirt, moving up. You felt his deft hands begin to roll your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’ve definitely earned this,” he spoke again, rolling his hips, causing you to tighten as another orgasm snuck up on you. You convulsed as you matched his thrusts, every bit of friction he provided being too much yet still leaving you wanting more.

“If I’ve earned it, give it to me” you managed, voice as raw as his cock was.

“You want it? Fine!” His thrusts became erratic, sloppy, his teeth met your neck, marking you. He grunted and groaned, your legs almost giving out, his hands still dutifully working you. He throbbed inside of you.

“Come on! You’re pathetic!” That was all it took, his body shook, his grip tightened as he pulled your body flush with his. His hips pulsed as he came, working himself until the end, even then, he seemed to thrust a few times after that.

The two of you stood breathless. Your arms fell from the brick as you stood up fully. Papa was still trying to catch his breath as you pulled your pants back up. His eyes followed you at the slight bend.

“What, need help getting dressed again old timer?” you sneered.

“Just thinking about the turf situation.” He said, hands finally righting himself, quickly fixing his shirt as well. His hand dipped into his pocket, retrieving your lighter. He motioned for you to take it. You straightened your jacket.

“Bring it to my place sometime,” you said, “and my revolver” you motioned to the trash pile with your head.

“I’ll get someone to-”

“No.” you cut him off, walking to your car, “You do it.”

Papa’s hand rubbed the back of his neck a moment before digging the remainder of his cigar out of his pocket and lighting it. You whistled, your confused driver rounded the corner at a jog, getting in and starting the engine no sooner than you had closed your door. You didn’t need to look back to tell Papas eyes followed your car as it drove off.

**Author's Note:**

> im very tired and very gay, thank you for the kind words, when the mafia stops being so alluring ill stop.


End file.
